Lonely is the Saboteur
by Dirty Little Half Blood
Summary: A Loki drabble-esque thing. More of a soliloquy/monologue. Basically Loki reflects on his thoughts and feelings. Rated T simply for paranoia sake. One-Shot


_**This is pretty much a one-shot. I wrote this when I was on a downer, and Loki seemed the most appropriate character to place this onto. Why you ask? Well, it's because I can relate to Loki on such a wide level. Criticise and mock this view if you must. But I know it to be true.**_

_**DISCLAIM: I do not own Loki, but the text is of my own creation. (Excluding one near quote from 'Thor')**_

_**Please Review. They fuel my ideas.**_

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_Why am I this way?_

This resemblance is unlike any of the bloodline – broad, blonde, fair-skinned and muscular with thick, chiselled features…Yet, here I stand with raven hair, pale skin, angular and sharp features – wiry and lean in comparison.

I am a lost link.

My only tie to this family is the blue of my eyes, a weak victory really, considering _all _those in Odin's bloodline posses blue eyes, _yes_ in variant shades – but still blue. Even looking, mine are closer to green – turquoise with a hazel inner rim. Even in basic requirements of kin, I am a foreigner.

Am I truly destined to be here, no more than a mere observer in the lives of the Asgardian clan? The very clan that I am claimed to belong!

What is my purpose? The Allfather raised Thor and I on the idea were both fit to be kings. That we were both destined for greatness! What would by existence come to in the end? I say existence, and not life, because that is what I do. I do not live – I simply drift along this course, praying for the one day that I gain purpose or finality, each prospect just as alluring as the other.

I exist in the dark and cold, living in the vast shadow of my brother. I pray that you note I use the term 'brother' loosely. I was there _purely_ to make any success that the blonde oaf reached seem grander.

_I_ would help the Allfather reach a treaty, using my gift of a silvertounge…

_Thor_ would slaughter their army singlehandedly.

_I_ would create a fantastic display to ensnare the senses using my magic…

_Thor_ would hunt a creature ten times his own size and bring it for a feast.

_I_ would build,

_He_ would destroy.

I was always a frivolity.

Mother, kind and warm, would claim she loved us evenly. She would soothe our wounds _fairly_, support our causes _fairly_, discipline us _fairly_.

But she was a matriarch first…to any and all those who required one. Unfortunately, this seemed to include myself.

She thinks me detatched from the rest of this realm. While the blond would trek these lands in search of great spoils, I would rest in solitude among the thousands of tomes in the Asgardian Library – in search of no more than escape.

Escape from _what_ you ask? My own state of being.

I was never truly meant for this realm. Companionship evaded me at all costs. As a child, I grew with Thor. We played, revelling in the innocence and naivety of childhood. We cared for each other – dare I say, I loved the bumbling idiot.

As very young infants – Thor and I – we were matched. Then as the centuries passed our paths split, while Thor grew in the _talent_ of combat aided by his brutish size, I grew skilled in the arts of deception and trickery – spells and magic, again, something unheard of in the Allfather's bloodline.

But it _did_ have its uses. Thor was often a curious child, in his own right. I remember during my (what you Midgards call) teenage years, unbeknownst to me, Thor was searching for herbs – a birthday present for myself. He came across a very rare flower, of ruby red with barbed petals. An exquisite sight to behold, but the blossom burned anything that dared to disturb its rooting. Thor, being the sentimental fool he was, tried to collect one for me. As we know, if you play with fire, you're bound to be burned.

He came straight to me, knowing that father would scorn his encouragement of my arts – father believed magic to be the work of woman-folk, saying it was no more than a war of words.

Thor's eyes were wet, the icy blue orbs – usually bright and full of wonder – were dull, only lit by the sheen of unshed tears. He snivelled – uncharacteristically so – asking for my help. I understood why he didn't go to father, so I asked why he didn't go to mother, or one of the palace healers. He merely sniffed and said something about them telling father in the end – resulting in further disdain from Odin.

So he asked me to use my magic to help him – I felt sorry for him, despite him being older than me – and that I did. I took the injured hand between my own, looking at the inflamed skin – a blemish on an otherwise perfect canvas. I mumbled a short phrase, and blew onto the fingers – manipulation of the cold had always been a particular skill of mine, even at such a youthful age.

He smiled and thanked me, embracing me in such a way that I thought my spine would splinter. He meant to harm, but it made the grip no less deadly. Thor chuckled, stating his thanks, and released me. Even in this moment of sentimentality, I felt no real camaraderie.

You may think me bitter toward my sibling. But no, I am merely blunt. He always had to have the upper hand, the superiority!

I never wanted the throne, or the maidens or the praise!

I only ever wanted to be his equal!

Sometimes, I wonder what will happen when centuries have gone by, and my form is reduced to dust.

There are few words which can define my existence…So when I am gone, let this be written on my tomb…

_Lonely is the Saboteur. _


End file.
